


the theory of breaking

by monarchs



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Character Death, Coma, Drama, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Post-Depositions, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-03-02 10:58:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18809695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monarchs/pseuds/monarchs
Summary: A few years after the settlement, a major malfunction in an experiment of some avant-garde science research center results in an explosion that radiates across the entirety of San Francisco. The next morning, people start waking up with superpowers, and things quickly turn into political unrest.In the midst of it all, Mark still thinks about Eduardo, and Palo Alto, and other broken things in his life he thought he would never get the chance to fix.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Explosion inspired by the premise of The Flash, and one of the superpowers is inspired by one of the abilities found in Guilty Crown.
> 
> Thank you to Allie for letting me throw the plot at her when I woke up one morning with it, and Elizabeth for all the warm encouragements!
> 
> Mature rating for later chapters.
> 
> This was not beta'd... all mistakes are my own.

1.

It was like living one of Dustin's crazy dreams, Mark thought.

His good hand hovered over the keyboard of his laptop, hesitant and unsteady. Holding his breath, Mark moved it across, watched the letters and numbers on the screen shift with it. The broken code untangled, rearranged itself, harmonised, ran smooth. 

 

Chris was right outside his office talking to a few interns when the screen in the hall showed the nth broadcast of the explosion that happened a month ago. Mugshots appeared on the side, scrolling down slowly. 

The records now counted fifty-three deaths, ninety-so injured, three Blesseds.

A shaky footage appeared behind the news reporter, a footage that had gone viral on Facebook, showing the apprehension of the third Blessed. It was of a girl – she was the second girl of the three – with a gentle demeanour. Soft eyes, lush hair, delicate features.

Everyone watched her like a show. The crowd in the background tried to get better angles of the scene, taunted her to use her power, but with so many people surrounding her, it was hard to see what her ability actually was. People screeched, people laughed, the sounds so hollow and empty they could chill bones. 

Everyone in the office watched the screen, frozen in space and time. In horror and stupefaction.

At the far back of the office, Mark tapped at the cast on his left arm absentmindedly.

 

The Blesseds were detained (or as the media put it, 'protected') in police custody for an indefinite amount of time. Officials said it was a matter of safety and control, whatever that meant.

Not that it meant anything to those who weren't Blesseds. People would just turn off their televisions and move on with life.

But to those who were, to those who had rolled the dice and got struck by lightning – it meant a lot, meant that the future was shrouding in darkness, meant that they were staring down a black hole, too close and too late to look back. 

 

 

 

Only Chris knew that Mark was a Blessed. Mark had picked up Chris's broken phone from the floor, and when it was returned into Chris's hands, it looked brand new. The screen had lost its sharp cracks, and lit up gently at Chris's touch. 

It was like magic.

It had shocked the both of them. Though perhaps, it had shocked Chris even more. Chris had looked at Mark, face turning pale, concern written in the tired lines of his face.

Mark wished he could reassure him that he didn't need to worry, but found himself at a loss when he opened his mouth to say, to not say, _well, shit_.

 

 

0.

Palo Alto. Rain. A yellow hallway. A pool sleeping in the dark outside. Sean's girls wasted on the couch. Static TV. Dustin wired in. Eduardo drenched, jetlagged, furious. Disappointed. 

Heartbroken.

That had been over six summers ago, but Mark still dreamed about it. He'd wake up with a jolt, then breathe hard, toss, turn, realise he was unable to fall back to sleep even though it was only three-thirty in the morning.

 _You're going to get left behind_. The words were heavy on his own tongue, like he could say them again, like he couldn't stop himself from repeating history, because it was immutable, even within a dream. Especially within a dream. 

Especially within _his_ dream.

 _What do you mean – left behind? Mark? Mark_. Mark would curl up and hold his head with both his hands and wonder how it could be this hard to fall back asleep. 

Silence couldn't sound any louder. The night couldn't feel any longer.

It was 2010, and that evening at Palo Alto still haunted him, consumed him whole.

 

 

2\. 

Dustin had been knocked over by the shockwave. He hit his head hard against the glass pane of a door. It would have been comical if Dustin wasn't in a coma. Still in a coma. 

Mark swallowed hard, standing at the doorframe of Dustin's hospital room. He watched Chris talk to him. Chris, who was always the first to tell Dustin to shut it, was telling him things. 

Things like, "it'd be nice to hear your annoying voice again."

There was tightness in Mark's chest as he watched. Chris turned his head and gave Mark a pained look, like he was telling himself they had to prepare for worst case scenario. Mark understood that Chris must be feeling the same kind of tightness too, somewhere in the chest. 

 

 

3.

A week later, after enough trial and error, Mark figured out a few limitations to his power.

Yesterday, Chris passed Mark his cell phone so Mark could speak to Sean (well, mostly the other way around), but before Mark could even get in a single greeting across ( _what have you done now_ ), the phone disintegrated into sand. It slipped through his fingers and made a hushing noise that gave Mark the goosebumps.

The same happened when he touched one of the computers he had fixed. And a mug too. 

 

Mark knew what it meant, and Chris didn't take too long to add up the twos and twos. 

At one a.m. the next day, Mark broke down in his office, trembling uncontrollably, teeth biting into his lower lip, drawing blood. 

Chris, who was the only one still around, rushed in and helped Mark up. He pulled him into a tight hug, said that everything was alright, that they'd figure it out, that Mark was going to be okay, other permutations of the same soothing nothings.

They both knew what empty promises sounded like, but they needed them, clung to them like a lifeline.

 

 

 

3 ½.

One. He had to have direct contact.

Two. It only worked with his right hand. (Or so he hoped. His left hand was still in a cast).

Three. He had to _will it_ in order for it to be fixed.

Four. He couldn't touch them. 

Ever again.

 

 

 

3 ¾. 

(He never thought he'd be the one wielding the double-edged sword.)

 

 

 

4.

Half a dozen more Blesseds were discovered. The most docile was an old lady who made flowers turn towards her whenever she passed. The most dangerous was a woman who could turn tears to molten gold. 

The press said, _no one knew what fate had in store for them_.

People talked. They rated the Blessed's abilities on social media, commented on each, wrote fanfiction too. Voted for the hottest, the most beautiful, the most unique.

Protested against their detainments. Or asked for them to be executed. Called them gods, metahumans, non-humans, monsters.

In these times, the trick was to stay hidden if you were a Blessed. And if you couldn't, you had to escape. And if that didn't work, then all you could do was pray.

Blesseds were a threat. That was what the news reporters were truly saying, between the lines.

 

 

 

4 ½.

It was a French journalist who coined the term. 

She had decided that the world would never truly know if these people were bestowed a gift – or if they were wounded, scarred for eternity, ripped apart by fate.

 

 

 

5\. 

It occurred to Mark, on a visit to see Dustin, that he could potentially heal people. He stepped away from Dustin's bed abruptly, backed up against a wall, his breath growing unsteady. Chris looked at him, confused.

"I could fix him," Mark murmured, not meeting Chris's eye. 

It didn't take long before realisation dawned on Chris. For a while, they remained silent, listening to monitors beep and nurses rush up and down the hall.

"Gloves," Chris said, sternly, not looking up.

Mark shook his head. "Too obvious."

Chris paused a beat, before saying, "sweatshirt with long sleeves and pockets?"

Chris had always been exasperated by Mark's wardrobe of hoodies. The fact that he was practically warranting it made Mark feel mildly uncomfortable, as if someone told him that the constants in an equation were not constants anymore.

"We can't afford an accident, Mark. _You_ can't afford an accident," Chris said solemnly. And he was right – who knew what would happen if Mark fixed someone by accident. Even if he had to will it for his power to manifest, it wasn't all that easy to keep from thinking something specific. Ironic rebound, and all that jazz he learned back in psych.

He looked at the patients in wheelchairs. They were broken, almost lifeless, and it made him shiver. There was no way he could touch them without thinking, _fix them_. He looked back at Dustin and thought, _there's no way he wouldn't want to fix Dustin_.

 

 

Thankfully, Mark wasn't much of a handsy person. 

No one would notice if he stopped touching people. Completely. But he had to be careful with his computer. If it broke – if the code broke, then that was going to cause trouble. Though Mark had the money to afford a bajillion laptops, Chris would have a hard time covering it up. Co-workers were bound to notice. There was going to be sand everywhere, the headquarters would become a fucking desert.

"Every time something breaks, condition yourself to think other things," Chris had suggested. "When something breaks, think about summer breaks and winter breaks and where you would like to go visit, where you would spend your holidays, and how, and keep thinking, write your summer break plans down for the next sixty years."

Mark wasn't a computer – he couldn't be reprogrammed so as to process that command whenever the condition was met, with no exceptions, but it was worth the shot, and sometimes he thought it worked. But one day, after his laptop turned to sand because he couldn't think of beaches and vacation houses in time, he sat back, wondering if, after all, he was the one who was broken. If after all, he was the one who needed to be fixed.

He had a dream of him and Eduardo chilling one night in Kirkland discussing chess strategies. 

Eduardo was sat on Mark's chair. He turned around, slowly, and with his motion the whole backdrop spun and suddenly they were sat at a conference table, and Eduardo was saying, "I was your best friend, I was your only friend."

Mark understood, when he woke up, with pain in his chest and tears on his cheeks, that he had long been broken.

 

 

 

6.

Six. Five-hundred. 

Six years, five-hundred million users.

It was strange how things turned out. The office celebrated it, the world celebrated it, and for a few days, Mark had been distracted by it. He had crossed the finish line, and adrenaline was coursing through his blood, and the crowd's cheer was loud, almost heady, very welcome in his ears, in his mind, for his ego.

Journalists praised him. Hacker culture thrived, applauded from different corners of the world. And then he was number one on a 2010 _Vanity Fair_ list of most influential figures of the Information Age. 

For a while, Mark had fallen back into a world where the explosion had never happened.

It was blissful in its own sense, but he also felt nauseous, like he had been tossed into the past and could barely keep his momentum, barely stand on his feet. 

At a press conference, overwhelmed and nervous and feeling increasingly agoraphobic, he found himself saying, surprisingly, that "it's okay to break things. To make them better." 

He and Chris rewatched the segment in silence in Mark's living room. 

Chris had turned to look at him, and then rubbed his shoulder, and then said that Mark should sleep.

"They won't ever know. I'll make sure of it," Chris promised softly. 

Mark nodded.

Mark nodded even though he knew there was no way to guarantee that.

 

 

 

7.

A peaceful week followed. Mark had discovered that as long as he didn't think of something as broken, his power wouldn't trigger, and he could then just fix things manually. Things weren't broken because they didn't work _temporarily_. Most times the only troubleshooting one needed to do was to check whether or not the appliance was plugged in in the first place. 

So bugs in coding were just typos he needed to retrace. A broken screen only meant that he should get it replaced. And Dustin was a proper human being in a coma. He didn't need any fixing. His friends and family were just waiting for him to wake up.

Fixing was solely for objects that had lost all of their primary and secondary functions.

It was easier to compartmentalize it this way.

It didn't mean that he wouldn't flinch when someone in the office mentioned the words 'break' or 'fix', but he hadn't triggered his power in days now.

He had the cast on his left arm removed too. And it was such a relief to him when he realised his left hand was normal. 

Powerless, but normal.

 

 

 

0.

Mark almost always dreamt of Eduardo. He had enough memories of them together to dream something different each night, perhaps for the rest of his life.

Last night, it was the first time he dreamt of the first time he had met Eduardo.

It was at an AEPi party. Eduardo had looked at him from across the room, tilted his head, looked at him curiously, looked at him with inexplicable attention that only fate knew the secrets of.

Connections, connections, Mark had been thinking. He had imagined what it would be like to connect the dots between all these people in this dull party. How, eventually, he would find out that Eduardo would be the friend of the friend of the roommate of the classmate of a friend of an acquaintance of Mark. 

Not that it would matter. A direct line was drawn that night when Eduardo approached him. A direct connection was made. Strengthened, cherished. 

And that line connecting him and Eduardo together would be the most important line of Mark's life.

A lifeline.

He would definitely go as far as calling it a lifeline.

The dream hummed and his vision tunneled until there was only him and Eduardo and the line – a faint red string, flickering like a broken neon sign. 

And then the dream, personified as a dark silhouette with long fingers and cold breath, coming out of the shadows, snipped it with its nails.

 

 

 

 

8.

Mark didn't sleep for the next forty hours. Chris begged him to stop, but Mark wouldn't, even if he was starting to code in circles, and talking in recursive.

"I think you would think that I think you think something happened, but really, nothing happened, and I am perfectly peachy."

"It's seven in the morning, and I am not going to untangle that mess of a sentence you just uttered," Chris said, exasperated, but clearly also very concerned. "You make a terrible liar," he said dejectedly.

"It's why I have you," Mark said, tugging his sleeves to cover the palms of his hands, not looking away from his screen.

"Mark, just get some sleep. Please," Chris said, tired, eyes shut. They stayed quiet for a beat, and then Chris added, defeatedly, "I don't want to lose you too."

 

 

 

9.

Mark did sleep eventually. His body had given in against his will. 

Thankfully it was dreamless this time. When he woke up, he felt fresher, though still a little lightheaded. He called Chris and told him he was going to take the light-rail train to the office. Chris had sounded wary about it, but he agreed that Mark needed some vitamin D and less stuffy air and a change in routine. So Mark grabbed a fresh GAP hoodie and his keys and some change and stepped out into the sun.

Everything was as normal as normal could get, at least at first. People were sat down reading newspapers or dozing off, or stood holding handles and staring off into space, into a morning landscape they'd seen every single day for god knew how many years.

But then he saw the headline on the newspapers the man sat across from him was holding; and the words _explosion_ and _Blessed_ started to pulse. Mark breathed hard, the corners of his vision blurring.

He stepped off the vehicle several stops early just to catch his breath, but collided clumsily into someone whose coffee then spilled all over the front of his hoodie.

"Shit. I'm sorry," the person said.

 

Mark wasn't sure what he recognised first. The voice, or the smell or the— he couldn't tell. He looked up, bewildered, because _why was he here? Wasn't he supposed to be all the way across the world? In Singapore?_

 

Eduardo didn't really falter when their eyes connected, didn't double take, didn't flinch. "I'm sorry. I'm not sure what just happened. I could— I. I'll buy you a new sweatshirt. There's a GAP nearby I believe. I'm really sorry—"

"Wardo?" Mark interrupted, frowning hard. Eduardo looked a little different – his hair was a little fluffier, his eyes a little darker, his jawline a little sharper. He was wearing a three-piece suit though – that would probably never change. 

But something seemed off with the way Eduardo was looking at him. 

 

 

Eduardo mirrored the frown. "Oh. Um. Excuse me?"

"Eduardo?" Mark clarified, getting more confused by the second. 

Eduardo smiled sympathetically, as if Mark had hurt himself by uttering Eduardo's name. Mark supposed it did hurt a little. Eduardo bit his lower lip, frowned, before saying, "Oh. Okay, um, do I… do I know you?"

 

 

 

10.

It was stupid how even though his first thought was to flee, Mark deadpanned, waited a beat or two, before replying, "never heard that one before."

Eduardo winced a little, then tilting his head, looked at Mark, deep in thought, searching Mark's face, looking for an answer there. Something dawned on Eduardo, and his eyes dilated comically. "Oh god. Sorry. You're— wow. Of course. You're all over-- Time magazine? Uh. Let me make it up to you. Please." 

"Your coffee was cold," Mark remarked, still very perplexed (not sure how to interpret what Eduardo just said), looking down at the stain on the front of his hoodie. "It's fine," he added when he realised Eduardo shifted on his feet nervously. "I was the one who ran into you. I can pay for your coffee."

Eduardo cocked his head, "No no no no, I wasn't paying attention—"

Mark jerked his chin, pointing towards a coffee shop at the end of the street. "That place has good coffee blends." A pause. "It'll taste even better if it's paid for you."

Eduardo let out a nervous laugh, turned around a little, as if trying to see if Mark was talking to someone else instead. But then he looked back, a little solemn, and lifted a finger to point vaguely between them. "Wait. Is this… are you…?"

Mark didn't really know what to say, wasn't really sure what Eduardo was trying to say either. "Something to that effect, yes. Maybe."

Eduardo blinked a few times, evidently flustered. "Okay. Um. Okay. Uh— how. So, wait. How did you know my name?"

Mark looked at Eduardo, feeling something in him throb. Sting. Hurt. 

 

 

(He hadn't seen Eduardo in so long – dreamed of him literally all the time – and now he was here in the flesh, except, not really.)

 

 

And Mark knew deep down that Eduardo wasn't pretending either.

 

He wouldn't have followed Mark to the coffee shop, otherwise.

Wouldn't have smiled at him like that.

 

Bright and winning. Sheepish and gentle. 

Like he'd never once been betrayed in his life. 

Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. #reviveTSN2k19.
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://thesoulnetwork.tumblr.com) or on [twitter](http://twitter.com/inexorably).
> 
>  
> 
> About "Blessed": the English word "bless" and the French word "blesser" (to "injure") have different etymological roots, and thusly have very different meanings and are not related at all. I'm just working with the pun itself rather than arguing that there is a connection there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating in a while... I was pretty insecure about this chapter and didn't really know where to break it off.
> 
> Warnings: very minor character death.

11.

Mark could imagine Dustin rambling on about doppelgängers. He could even hear Dustin's voice, echoing off the office walls, like he was actually there.

"There's an actual mathematical chance that they exist. I mean, yeah sure, the chances are one in a trillion or something like that, but it's like. It's _possible_."

Mark shook his head, murmured. "Yes, and we're only about seven billion people in the world."

"The mathematical certainty to it would have interested Wardo, I bet, there's direct proof to it – infinite strings and what not," not-Dustin said, almost wistfully. "And also, we're seven billion people _now_ , but what if we looked exactly like one of our great great forefathers? What if Jesus looked like me?"

"You're insinuating I just met Eduardo's great great offspring, while I'm still alive?" Mark said, dismissing the Jesus comment pointedly.

"You can fix things with the touch of one hand. You're like. Tinkerbell! At this point, anything is possible."

Mark grimaced. "I don't think I'd look good in lime green."

 

Someone cleared their throat, and Mark flinched, then turned around on his swivel chair. Chris was standing at the doorframe, looking disconcerted. 

"Mark?" Chris said, looking around the empty office room quizzically before turning his gaze back at Mark. "I have some papers you need to sign. Do you have a minute?"

Mark nodded, then lowered his gaze. Chris stood around for a few seconds more, clearly worried, before leaving to get the papers.

When he left, Mark closed his eyes.

Dustin's voice didn't come back.

 

  
  
  


 

12.

On a fine July day, the woman who could turn tears into gold passed away. There were metallic yellow streams left on her cheeks. The funeral was broadcast live on television and everyone from all over the world watched, solemn and confused, as one of the Blesseds, a young teenage boy, lay a flower on the casket. The boy's power was unknown to the general public, though a lot speculated that it was a telepathic one. 

It didn't really matter though. Because people had forgotten that words too, had power.

The boy had turned to the cameras, nose flaring, eyes full of hurt and anger, and said, "you don't know what they did to her."

It blew up. What had been mild political unrest had turned into a massive campaign for the truth.

Things got busy on social media, to say the least. Downtimes happened. Blackouts happened. People boycotted. People protested in the streets. More and more Blesseds came out, stood proud, protected by ideals and rights and whatever was left of humanity.

"People are going to get hurt," Chris had said, watching sternly out the window, watching at the crowd jeering. 

"Some things you just can't fix," Mark responded, without faltering in his coding, without looking away from the screen, but really feeling it, deep down in his gut.

 

  
  
  


 

13\. 

Mark met up with Eduardo despite the chaos that engulfed the world outside.

They were sat at a bar. "I only moved here a couple of months ago," Eduardo said. "Funny how things can change so much after – well." 

The explosion, Mark thought idly. After a beat, he asked, "where did you move from?"

Eduardo tapped the side of his cup twice. A nervous tic. "From Singapore. But I mean. I grew up in Miami. And I went to Harvard – and I've stayed in New York before, for an internship."

 _An internship he had quit the very first day_ , Mark thought. "I attended Harvard too. Except I never graduated. Well – surely you know the story by now."

Eduardo gave a small smile. "I can't believe I didn't recognise you that day I spilled coffee all over you. I mean – you did look incredibly familiar. I can't believe I was offering to buy you a new hoodie from GAP."

Mark smiled briefly. "Right."

Eduardo let out a shaky laugh before taking another sip of his drink. "You didn't ask about Singapore."

"Do people usually?"

"Well, it's all the way across the world. People at least ask what the food is like."

Mark narrowed his eyes slightly. "Why did you come back?"

Eduardo seemed to double take. "To the States?"

"Hm-mm."

"It's work-related. They needed someone out here."

Mark smiled sadly, then murmured, " _I_ needed you out here."

"Excuse me?"

"How do you find it out here?" Mark amended.

"What, San Fran?"

Mark nodded. 

Eduardo lowered his head. "The explosion happened. It's very hard to ignore that. I can barely remember what San Fran felt like before it happened. What about you?"

"I live in Palo Alto," Mark replied. "It's sunny. There're lots of tall trees."

Eduardo laughed sheepishly. "It lives up to its name. Sounds nice."

"It's suburban."

"I'd love to visit," Eduardo said. 

Mark looked at him carefully. The other Eduardo would not have wanted to visit, he thought. It was ironic, but Mark quickly shook the thought away.

"Inviting yourself already," he said, contemplative. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?" 

Eduardo smiled warmly. "It was worth a try."

 

  
  
  


14.

It was like rewriting history. Mark had the chance to redo that rainy night in Palo Alto. He picked Eduardo up from San Francisco. Drove him to his house. Made sure to listen to every word he said. Smiled at the way Eduardo laughed at Mark's terrible jokes. Felt something twist in his gut whenever Eduardo looked at him.

 

 

Kissed him. Kissed him after closing the door behind him. Kissed him because Mark could because he wanted to, because he should have, because he fucking should have a long time ago. 

Eduardo was kissing him back, pressing back against him, moaning his name, the way the other Eduardo never did.

"Mark—"

It was obscene the way his name fell from Eduardo's lips. Not that Eduardo had been aiming for sensual, surely. But he was out of breath, his eyes were half-lidded, his cheeks were flushed, his mouth was red. Mark bit on Eduardo's lower lip, and then dived for another kiss, desperate, apologetic, remorseful, this time not holding back. 

"Mark, wait," Eduardo had said, panting, and he pushed back lightly, a hand on Mark's chest.

Mark froze, and then pulled back. Insecurities rose up into his throat and he didn't feel so good, a little like he was going to be sick, but he looked up at Eduardo anyways, because this time he vowed to pay attention, he vowed to do things differently than he did before.

Eduardo smiled gently, then pressed their foreheads together. "I want this as much as you do, but can we go a little slower?"

Mark pulled away completely, despondent, starting to think of a multitude of reasons to why Eduardo might be rejecting him already.

To his surprise, Eduardo pulled him back and placed a chaste kiss to his cheek. "I don't want our first time to be me coming in my pants untouched, in your entrance hall, when I haven't even seen the rest of this place. Show me around?"

Mark nodded sheepishly, smiled, led Eduardo inside, with his left hand.

 

  
  
  


15.

"You know. Doppelgängers could be ghostly apparitions. A paranormal phenomenon. Maybe he doesn't actually exist," not-Dustin said. "Maybe you just really want him to."

"And I would have been French kissing air," Mark replied.

"Well, I mean, not to rub it in…but like, right about now, you're talking to yourself," not-Dustin said ruefully.

Mark turned around, in the direction of Dustin's voice, but no one was there.

 

  
  
  


14 ½.

Eduardo kissed his knobbly hands like they were holy. Mark almost wanted to cry from the attention, but he lay as still as he could, let Eduardo explore his body – beautiful bronze fingers against his pale skin. 

Mark felt exposed (though he wanted to open up to Eduardo), vulnerable (though he desperately wanted to surrender to Eduardo), guilty (though at the same time, never happier). 

All the while Eduardo murmured, hummed, over and over, against his skin, "beautiful. You're so beautiful."

Mark closed his eyes and whispered, voicelessly, "too good for me. you're too good for me." He clenched his right hand tightly when Eduardo kissed his neck, trembled lightly as Eduardo's hands roamed lower and lower.

When Eduardo took Mark into his mouth, Mark couldn't help but card his fingers through Eduardo's soft hair, caressing him fondly, pulling him back a little so as to say, _you don't need to go this far for me, you don't need to do this for me_. 

But Eduardo wouldn't have any of that. He looked up at Mark longingly before sucking and humming and licking and lavishing wordless praise for Mark's cock, for Mark's body, for Mark, period. Eduardo took him apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of the whole.

 

  
  
  


15 ½.

Sometimes, Mark wondered if he could really have this.

Most times he decided he couldn't. That he should break it off. That it wasn't healthy, that this wasn't even real.

The chemistry between them, the electric current that ran through them when they connected (fingers intertwined, legs tangled, hearts beating against each other, lips to lips, breath mingling) – they were all just projections. 

Surely Eduardo didn't actually want him.

Eduardo didn't even know him.

Eduardo just knew him as the youngest self-made billionaire who made this website that sort of changed the world. (It didn't change the world, not really, not the way the explosion did, not the way those words, _you don't know what they did to her_ , did. And certainly not the way a past Eduardo had said, _you had one friend_ , did.)

Eduardo just knew him as the guy he poured coffee all over. Someone he met on the streets.

A complete stranger.

A stranger not worth his time.

 

  
  
  


16.

Mark loved him. In a past world, in another life, maybe Eduardo would love him back too. 

" _Meu amor_ ," Mark murmured to Eduardo's ear, out of the blue, one day, and Eduardo had almost fallen off the bed, completely taken by surprise. Mark had leaned forward over the edge and cocked his head. "Is that not how you say it?"

Eduardo laughed, visibly mortified. "Yes, you got it, I just didn't expect you to—you can't just say _meu amor_ out of nowhere without warning your guy!"

"Your mom said it," Mark said without thinking, and then froze up. 

Eduardo frowned, then scowled. "You've never … met my mom. How did you—" He sat up on the ground, looking at Mark strangely before his eyes widened in something between shock and fear. 

 

Mark saw it coming a long time ago, saw it coming any second too. It didn't mean it would hurt less. 

_Meu amor_ was the closest thing to a confession he'd ever uttered to Eduardo, and this was what it did.

 

And it was so clear – the sunlight flared in the room as if to make that point – it was so clear what Eduardo was thinking, what was running through his mind, reflecting in his eyes like it didn't matter that Mark could see it. 

Mark could swear he heard a crack resonate in his ears too, when he closed his eyes, focusing on the black behind his eyelids.

The crack echoed at the back of his mind, like it couldn't stop.

Like this illusion had suffered a fissure. 

_Like it was starting to break before it ever really began._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, please leave a kudos and/or comment! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol, i'm not sure what's going on either
> 
> warning: character death, vomiting

18.

"He loves you, you know. I never thought I'd have to be the one to say it, because it's obvious, and you're supposed to be The Genius, capital T and G, and honestly people who are mutually pining for each other should be the ones saying it," not-Dustin said. "But I guess it's 2010 or something, and I should really clue you in."

"He looked at me like I was a monster," Mark replied.

"Some things take time," not-Dustin said. 

For a brief moment, Mark thought he saw Dustin sat atop the desk in the empty meeting room beside Mark's office. The glass wall gave him a sort of ethereal gleam. 

"Give him some time," not-Dustin repeated.  
  
  
  
19.

Time was merciless.

Mark was at home trying to open the wrapping off a frozen ready-made meal when Chris called.

"Turn the TV on. Any of the cable news channel."

Mark did as he was told. 

The headlines read, big sans-serif white on a blue background, "Game Changer: Power is Desire."

_"Attention, revenge, wealth, you name it. These Blessed Ones – are they not led by the wrong values? Should the nation still trust them? Still march for them? Stay tuned."_

The reporter's voice was static, mechanic, almost inhuman. Mark had to take some moment to breathe, even after turning off the tv. But the moment never passed, and before he knew it, he was vomiting across the floor.  
  
  
  
20.

Mark hadn't had the chance to fully digest the news (that a Blessed's power reflected their innermost desires) before worse news came around. Chris had driven all the way to Palo Alto to tell him, like it was an honour to do so.

Two hours after the phone call he was at the door. He let himself in, whispered, "Mark."

Mark nodded. He was at the couch and he didn't turn around. He heard the door close with a subtle click.

"I have bad news," Chris said. 

"I saw it on the tv. I don't need a recap."

"No – what's that smell—" Chris paused, seeing the mess on the floor that Mark didn't bother cleaning up, "shit, are you okay?"

"Peachy."

"You're not fooling anyone."

"Been better. What's the bad news?"

Chris walked around so they were face-to-face, took a deep breath. "It's Dustin."

Mark looked up. "Is he awake?"

Chris shook his head lightly, slowly, like that could postpone anything. "I said bad news, Mark."  
  
Mark didn't believe him. Didn't want to make that conclusion. But then Chris just stood there, empty and lost, so empty and lost Mark could feel pain even though they were several feet apart.

Mark shuddered, really _shuddered_. Violently. His toes curled, his knees buckled. His spine went so tense it hurt. "No," he said. Like he could refuse something like death.

Chris didn't say anything back. He just stood there, closing his eyes.  
  
But there was nothing left to pray for.  
  
Mark's breath turned shallow, rapid, ragged. His nails dug into his palms, teeth sank into his lower lip.

He thought of the girl who could turn tears into gold and wondered why she would be crying, wondered what her powers meant, and he thought about the Blesseds in a cage, mourning the loss of trust, the loss of faith. 

He thought of the way Eduardo had looked at him, that morning when he had called him _meu amor_ , he thought of how ugly his hands looked now, before him, how these hands could be his making and his ruin. Mostly his ruin. Always his ruin.

 

And then he thought – why did he want to fix things? Because he couldn't? Because he'd spent his life wrecking everything and anything good that had ever happened to him? 

"B-Breathe, Mark," Chris said, but his voice was cracked, broken by unshed tears.  
  
  
  
21.

"I can't fix anything," Mark said, "and everything is broken."

"You know. It's all quite relative. Think about it this way: a book is a broken tree. A computer can be taken apart but the fact that it could be put back together means that it was never broken in the first place. A broken stick makes two shorter sticks," not-Dustin said. He was sitting at the ledge. They were at the rooftop, broad daylight. He was wearing a tasteless Marvel t-shirt with the default colour palette of Microsoft Paint.

"A broken friendship is two people whose hearts have lost an artery, and who have decided to go separate ways," Mark responded.

"Broken glass can be melted and moulded again to make something new. Relationships are broken because they were sand castles to begin with, and sometimes to move on… that's what you needed."

"So me and Wardo – we were never meant to be."

"No, that unresolved friendship you had with him, back in those days, was never meant to be."

Mark pondered it, considered it. He turned it over and over in his mind, then eyed not-Dustin. "Who the fuck are you?"

Not-Dustin turned back to look at Mark, and smiled gently.

 

22.

Eduardo showed up unexpectedly. He looked like he had just run a marathon, hair dishevelled, breath a little short, sweat on his forehead.

Mark was feeling worse for wear too, but that didn't really matter.

"Oh god," Eduardo said, likely wincing at the smell, but mostly looking at Mark like a parent would at a child they once abandoned. 

Mark looked away, mildly mortified, because yes he could have at least cleaned up his mess and showered, but it wasn't like he invited anyone over to review his housekeeping abilities or lack thereof. 

"Yeah. You'd be nuts if you want to come in here," Mark said, dejected. "I think even flies have dropped dead."

"I do want to – come in," Eduardo said, unsteadily. "I. I came over to— apologize. Can I— can I come in?"

Mark nodded slowly, stepping aside.

Once the door was closed, they just stood there. Silence reigned until Eduardo gave in and spoke up.

"I didn't give you a chance to explain yourself. But it's not because – it's not because I don't trust you or believe you, or because I'm scared that you're a Blessed, trust me it's really not that. It was really because I was having an incredibly strange—" Eduardo swallowed hard then rephrased, emphasized with jerky hand gestures, "I don't know why but I had this sense of déjà-vu or something and you know it's crazy how it's only been a little bit since we've started… whatever we started, but I was scared about how much I trusted you, how I wouldn't give a shit even if your power had been, like, mind-control or something, and that even if you were mind-controlling me—"

Mark frowned deeply at that. "My power isn't mind-control. Why would you think that?"

"God, I don't know. You knew my name, and my nickname? And what my mom calls me? When you've never seen her or talked to her? And the way I could barely say no to you—"

"Nickname? You mean, Wardo?"

"Yes. That's the thing you're going to focus on?"

Mark eyed Eduardo carefully. "I gave you it," he said, shrugging.

"No, you didn't," Eduardo scoffed. "My friend's roommate back at Harvard did. He was this freshman who was always coding and was probably too lazy to enunciate the four syllables to my nam—" Eduardo stopped abruptly, looking at Mark, a little puzzled. "Are you okay?"

Mark swallowed hard. "Is that— is that friend called Dustin?"

Eduardo blanched. 

"Dustin Moskovitz?" Mark clarified, gaze low, something hurting in his chest.

Eduardo opened his mouth and closed it. "Okay. Um. I wasn't even thinking his name, so that rules out mind-reading. Is your power some kind of like. People profiling? Is my full profile hovering above me? Is your power a reflection to why you created Facebook? Is my profile like, the size of a dictionary?"

Mark was thrown off, a little caught between shock and amusement for a moment, but then he decided to grimace because what? "Uh. No. Um. Really— no," he spluttered inelegantly. 

Mark didn't know which point to make clear first. The fact that his power had nothing to do with his website, or the fact that Eduardo's guesses weren't even remotely close to what his actual power was, or the fact that Mark had been a (very important) part of Eduardo's life, or the fact that Mark also fucked up in said life, or the fact that Eduardo might have fucking amnesia, or the fact that maybe Eduardo was just a figment of Mark's imagination? 

Or, alternatively, should he mention that he was sorry? That he had always been sorry? That he missed Eduardo? So much? That he didn't realize back then that he needed him? Truly needed him? Not just for the algorithm on the windowpane? Or a signature on a fucking death certificate?

That Mark didn't realize back then that he _loved_ him? That he still did? That he couldn't live without him?

(And Dustin? Was he supposed to tell him that Dustin was gone?)

Eduardo was looking at him, expectant.

"I have several big points to make, and I can't decide which to make first," Mark admitted.

Eduardo exhaled steadily. "It doesn't need to be in alphabetical order. Or order of importance. Really. Just— take your time. I understand. Anyways – I'm sorry. I shouldn't have just upped and left. It wasn't… and I'm sorry for ignoring your texts and calls."

Mark bit his lip. "You said you had a sense of déjà-vu."

"Yes – I was a little overwhelmed."

"My power isn't instant profiling," Mark said. 

Eduardo nodded gently. "Okay."

"Put simply, I can fix things. With just a touch of my hand."

Eduardo's eyes widened a bit. "—That's— that's interesting. But that doesn't—"

"— doesn't explain why you can't remember me."

Eduardo jerked. "What?"

"Can we sit down? I'm not feeling so good," Mark said, tired before the real conversation had even really started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading this thing, dudes.... again, please leave a kudos and/or comment if you liked this!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha, .... did you think I abandoned this? 
> 
> Well, to be fair, I kind of did because I wanted to finish my cat mark fic first. Anyways, here's a chapter. I really can't say when the next chapter will be up, but rest assured I _am_ still producing for this fandom....

They moved to sit at the dining table, which was ironically, the only place not covered in semi-digested or rotting food.

"Were you hit when the explosion happened? Did you hit your head?" Mark asked, without much of a preamble. 

"I was hit by the shockwave, like everybody else," Eduardo said, rather evenly. "Why?"

Mark lowered his gaze but decided to go straight to the point. "I think you may have selective amnesia."

Eduardo sat back, a little baffled. 

Mark continued. "Dustin's roommate. I was Dustin's roommate. I called you Wardo because Eduardo was definitely a mouthful, but I stuck to it because it grew on you. And on me."

The blood drained from Eduardo's face as he realised how it was far more serious than he had envisioned. 

Mark explained to him how they met. Explained that what he had been coding back then, was Facebook, and how Eduardo had given him a thousand dollars to kickstart it. Had bet his money on it, on Mark.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It was weird. Not only for Eduardo, but also for Mark. It was almost an out-of-body experience, hearing it being told like a story, even if Mark was the one telling it. These small bits and pieces of his past that had snowballed into a nightmare rather than an accomplishment. They arranged themselves like a script that was being enacted. A chess game that was being played, where Mark and Eduardo were both the players and the pawns.

It was like replaying an old VHS tape. 

It went a little like this:

Erica (because it all started with her, and the look on Eduardo's face when Mark had first said he needed him, after Erica dumped him); Kirkland (marker, algorithm, window, the way Eduardo looked back at Mark, the way he seemed to say, _is this what you needed?_ ); FaceMash ("we crashed Harvard's network"); Carribean night (the silly shoulder shaking mating dance, the way Eduardo looked that night, outside in the yellow light, breath turning white in the cold, curling upwards, drifting with the wind).

Then: the Winklevoss twins (Mark and Eduardo and Chris and Dustin arguing inanely over whether it was Winklevosses or Winklevii); the chicken episode (that Eduardo raised in Mark's room, because he was always in Mark's room).

When Mark got to Palo Alto, he had to take a moment to breathe. Eduardo could only look at him sympathetically.

"This is where you started hating me," Mark said, matter-of-factly. Because it was also when _he_ started hating himself, or at least the reason why he started hating himself.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Predictably, Eduardo didn't look too happy after hearing the retellings of Palo Alto, the dilutions and depositions. 

Mark finished the whole recounting feeling empty and ashamed. He couldn't bring himself to look at Eduardo. But somehow Eduardo stuck around, even sat next to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, as some form of comfort. 

"Mark. I can't resent you anymore, you know that, right?" Eduardo had said gently.

"Because you can't remember."

Eduardo smiled gently. "No, I can't. But you know – everything you said – felt right. I said I had a sense of déjà-vu. I had like a million déjà-vus just now. It’s kind of mindblowing. It has to mean something."

"Clearly it means it all happened, and that you hated me enough to make yourself forget about me."

Eduardo remained quiet, pensive, while Mark's insides twisted and twisted like he had just swallowed a tiny tornado.

"And right now, I'm taking advantage of the fact that you can't remember me to—"

"To take care of me?" Eduardo cut in. "To love me? To make me fall for you all over again without all the road bumps?"

"What do you mean, all over again?"

"There's no way I hadn't felt something for you."

"You don't even remember me." 

"Maybe the bad memories were what stood in the way. Who knows?"

"You're saying the old you set this up so that you'd – so that we'd have some kind of second chance?" 

It made Mark think of not-Dustin, of Dustin, of his unrealistically optimistic ideas and relativity theories. It threw Mark off. He felt whatever he last ate coming up his throat and had to suppress the urge to dry-heave.

He turned away from Eduardo. And then thought of Dustin wired in, back in that stupid Palo Alto house with the stupid pool. 

Dustin turning around, taking his headphones off, saying, _hey Mark. I fixed the bug! In record time! While inebriated! High-five?_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
0.

(Even if Mark had Eduardo here with him now, it didn't feel right.

Mark wondered: how much did they both sacrifice to get here?

Dustin was out of the picture. The old Eduardo was gone. Forgotten, discarded, in some other dimension. Mark was to relive his memories of that old Eduardo – alone. 

And Mark was still having visions of not-Dustin, talking sci-fi theories or pop culture gossip to convince him that things were all right when they sure as fuck were not.)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
23.

"Am I that different from him?" Eduardo asked, much more softly and diffidently than before, once he cleaned Mark up. They were both in the guest room (Mark's room was a disaster), sat at the bed, side by side, knees touching.

Mark shook his head. It wasn't really the truth, but it wasn't really a lie either. Eduardo wasn't different, not really. Same winning smile, same warm kindness, making the same mistake of being so trusting of Mark.

Maybe it was because the world was so different now. Blesseds? No Dustins? Political unrest? 

Mark probably having hallucinations? 

"Look at me," Eduardo said, and his voice was a little broken now. Mark looked away because, fuck, just thinking that it sounded broken did bad things to Mark, and his hands clenched and he was going to leave marks in his palms but he didn't care because the pain could distract him from actually thinking about this entire mess.

Eduardo reached out, hesitant. "Mark. Please."

Mark tried evening his breath, but it was no use.

"Mark," Eduardo trembled. "Mark. I know I'm different, but I do feel like. Like he's a part of me. There are blanks in my memory, but this feels real. This feels right. The way you explained everything, the details – they didn't feel off. And when I look at you and I think, _I'm in love with this guy_ it just makes sense. But you have to help me help you. Okay?"

Mark looked at Eduardo for a few seconds, searching, tired. "You're in love with me? Why would you be? I'm—"

Eduardo leaned forward and kissed him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Mark melted into it after a beat, and kissed back, eyes squeezed shut. It was a little bit of an awkward angle, so Mark turned his body to face Eduardo, and that deepened the kiss even more.

Eduardo took that as some kind of affirmative and pushed Mark down. His hands started roaming his body as they made out. The kisses were heady – and Mark wondered if it was really okay to just give in like this. But Eduardo knew now, right? That he was in love with a man who had once stabbed him in the back?

"You'd never call me Wardo, again, would you?" Eduardo murmured against the skin of Mark's clavicle.

"Wardo," Mark muttered almost too quietly. 

"Say it like you mean it?" Eduardo said.

"Wardo," Mark whispered, wrapping his arms around Eduardo. He then closed his eyes and kissed him.

 

They did it face to face this time. Mark on his back and Eduardo on top. When Eduardo pushed into him, Mark couldn't help a tear rolling down his cheek. Eduardo kissed it, and Mark's nails just dug into the other's shoulders, in response.

"Mark. Does it hurt?"

There were many things that hurt, Mark thought. But definitely not anything Eduardo did, not anything he was doing. He shook his head, but he couldn't stop the second tear from streaming down.

"Mark," Eduardo stopped. Mark whined in response and pushed up, rolled his hips, but Eduardo pinned him down. Gently – but firmly. "Mark. We can stop. We should stop."

Mark shook his head.

"You're not even hard anymore."

Mark scoffed. "You'll fix that. Just move."

Eduardo hauled Mark up so that he was sat in Eduardo's lap. He pulled himself out at the same time, so they were just there, in an awkward embrace. After a beat, he took Mark's hand and kissed his knuckles.

"You use your right-hand – to fix things, right?" Eduardo asked. He picked it up and Mark flinched and pulled away.

"Yes, so you should be careful with it," Mark snapped. He had already been rather careful, had had the habit of doing things left-handed now if he could, never touched Eduardo with his right hand.

"What happens when you fix things?" Eduardo asked. "There's a catch?"

Mark nodded. He shifted back so that he could pull some weight off of Eduardo, but Eduardo just pulled him back. "It's fine. You're not heavy. What's the catch?"

"Things disintegrate if I touch them again."

"Disintegrate?"

Mark nodded. They stayed quiet for a while.

"Fuck," Eduardo said, not offering much else.

Mark nodded again, apologetically, agreeing because _fuck, indeed_.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
24.

"Let's say your theory is correct."

"What theory?"

"That I hated you enough to forget you."

"Ah."

"Wouldn't that mean that _your_ power reflects your sincerest desire of fixing our friendship?"

Mark blinked, and then narrowed his eyes. It wasn't improbable, but it was funny how he came to another conclusion, following that same line of thought. "It would also mean you're, in some capacity, also a Blessed."

Eduardo sat up straight and looked at Mark, perplexed. "What?"

"You wished so hard to forget about me. When the shockwave hit, you became a memory manipulator and erased your memories of me," Mark clarified. 

"And the first thing I did was to erase you from my mind? Wow. A bit dramatic."

"I suspect betrayal does that," Mark said, dejectedly, though he was aiming for wryness. 

Eduardo's expression softened. "You know, if the old Eduardo knew how badly you wanted to fix this friendship, I'm sure he would have forgiven you."

Mark studied his hands for a moment before realisation hit him like thunder. "Fix this friendship… I could… potentially fix _you_."

"Fix me?"

"Fix your amnesia."

The blood left Eduardo's face. Mark looked away.

"I won't do it if you don't want me to, of course," Mark muttered. "It's just—"

Eduardo kept mum, but there was anger in his eyes. 

Mark could recognise his anger miles away.

"It's just, I don't think it's fair. That he doesn't get to know," Mark said.

"He knows!" Eduardo snapped, voice shaky. He looked at Mark with visible hurt in his eyes. "He knows because he's _me_!"

_But he's not_ , Mark thought, and it was scary how merciless and cold it sounded in his mind, because it wasn't like he didn't like this Eduardo.

But it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that –

"I'm him," Eduardo reiterated, voice low, dangerously low. "But you don't see me as him."

"How could I," Mark said, before he could stop himself. "We didn't go to Harvard together— You didn't meet me at the stupid AEPi mixer. You weren't there when Erica dumped me. You weren't the one who wrote an algorithm on a window, for me. You weren't the one who heard me say I needed you. You weren't the one I persuaded to kickstart Facebook with me, on Caribbean night. You weren't the one who hated Sean Parker. You weren't the one whose shares got diluted because his best friend betrayed him. You weren't the one who smashed my laptop and told me you'd be back for everything. You weren't the one who decided to move across the world so you could be so far from me you'd be able to pretend I never existed."

Eduardo swallowed hard. It was only until he spoke that Mark noticed the tears. "But he wasn't the one who poured cold coffee over your GAP hoodie. He wasn't the one who invited himself to your place here in Palo Alto. He wasn't the one who kissed you. He wasn't the one who held you. Multiple times. He might have wanted it all – but he never got it. Isn't that worth something?"

Mark reached out, but Eduardo flinched and backed away and said, "No. You don't get to touch me until you fucking sort that out in your head, Mark. I'm not fucking broken. I don't need to be fixed. If I made this choice, then I made it consciously, and I stand by it, and I don't want you to fix it, because maybe all you'll do is wreck it. Like you did, when you got _my_ shares diluted. Yes," Eduardo nodded for good measure, "his shares are _my_ shares. So fuck you. Okay? You got that? _Fuck you_."

Mark bit down on his lower lip, looked at the linen sheets. Maybe this Eduardo really wasn't all that different. That, or maybe Mark was really more unlikeable than he thought he was. 

"You're saying he wouldn't care," Mark said. "Wouldn't care that you're with me."

"I'm saying that he and I are the same person."

"Two instances of the same person—"

"Don't you fucking argue the technicalities. Mark – do you realise that if you fix me, you'll never be able to touch me again?"

Mark bit his lip. "Yes."

Eduardo bristled, waves of anger and fear rolling off him. "And you're fine with that?"

Mark could never be fine with that. "No."

Eduardo closed his eyes. "You _are_ my ruin, aren't you? There's no escaping you."

Mark didn't dare look at Eduardo.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The bed shifted – Eduardo left. Perhaps this time for good – or at least, that was what Mark thought, until he realised Eduardo only moved to the other guestroom.

Mark didn't know what it meant, but he didn't follow. He stayed there, hugged his knees, turned onto his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do let me know what you think! Thanks for reading and for waiting so long for an update! Really sorry about that...


End file.
